


Easy Way Out

by allyoops



Category: Original Work
Genre: Family member forced to watch, Fingerfucking, Hostage Situations, Manhandling, Molested while used as a human shield, Rape & Rescue, Vaginal Fingering, Victim's age not specified
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28053714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyoops/pseuds/allyoops
Summary: It's bad enough, Hannah thinks, to be dragged down the cliff path like she's nothing more than a get out of jail free pass for the man pursued by her father.But then her father shows up and the man holding Hannah resorts to a very hands-on method of persuading him to back off, proving that no matter how bad they are, things canalwaysget worse.
Relationships: Thwarted Terrorist/Secret Service Agent's Teen Daughter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2020





	Easy Way Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Val_Creative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/gifts).



> Your suggestion to mix and match tags from your other requests caught my eye. I hope you enjoy!

Hannah’s foot slipped on the path, sending a shower of pebbles cascading over the cliff into the churning water below. There was just enough daylight left for her to see them fall.

It felt as if part of her stomach had swooped and plunged to follow.

“Slow down,” she said, tugging feebly on her wrist, “please. I’m going to—”

“You’re going to keep up or I’ll throw you over.” The man swung his torch so that the broad, yellow beam of light skipped and slithered along the rocky pre-dusk path ahead. “Goddamn it, how do you get to the _beach_?”

Hannah, her head swimming, only moaned. All at once the torch was shining in her eyes, dazzling, painfully bright.

“Which way to the beach?” He shook her. “Tell me!”

She shook her head, still fighting her stomach and the aftereffects of whatever he’d given her to knock her out long enough get her away in his little panel truck, the one he’d used to deliver the very incendiary device that her father’s team had been just in time to stop.

“I don’t . . .” she said, then had to stop and cover her mouth, breathing deep and slow through her nose, letting the salt dampness clear her head and clean her lungs.

With a sound of disgust he solidified his grip on her upper arm and dragged her along behind, swinging the torch and scanning the half-lit path the whole way.

Dad, Hannah thought, must have missed her by now. Surely he’d have gone home to discover she had never made it there. That once he’d found her crouched behind the fence with Leah in the deserted schoolyard and torn a strip off her for being so reckless as to get that close, she and Leah had parted ways, duly chastened, but Hannah had never made it home. She’d been set on before she had even got all the way clear of the school, with Leah’s observation, shocked and a little awed, still ringing in her ears:

“Your Dad’s not half scary when he’s mad.”

Hannah could only imagine how scary he’d be when he found her gone.

“There’s a way down,” the man who held her was saying. “There must be. Wouldn’t have the sign for the beach posted up there if there weren’t—come _on_ , you!” He gave Hannah another furious shake. “Show me. Point! Which way to the beach?”

The answer to his question did not come from Hannah, but from a much deeper voice behind them both.

“Shortest trip down starts one step to your left.”

Quicker than thought, Hannah’s captor grabbed her by the neck and jerked her around to face her father. Hannah blinked, doubly blinded, the light from her father’s torch flashing across her eyes and the spots from the bomber’s torch, the one he pointed at her dad, still dancing there too.

“Dad . . .” she said, then broke off, swallowing.

“Hi, honey,” he answered, so calm, so steady, like he had come to pick her up from school and the man who had her by the neck was nothing more alarming than Ms. Eglantine waiting to deliver some more disappointing news about Hannah’s performance in Biology. “You hurt?”

Hannah shook her head, hair tumbling half into her face as she did. One of her clips had given up in the back of the panel truck and her curls threatened to riot all over the right side of her head. She longed to shake them back, but with the punishing grip around her neck and the way she was the only thing keeping her dad from firing at the man who held her, she didn’t quite dare. Instead she swallowed and said, “No.”

“Not yet,” qualified the bomber. Dad’s eyes flicked up, over Hannah’s shoulder, to where her captor stood.

“Mimms,” said Dad. Hannah blinked, briefly puzzled, before she realized it was a greeting: the name of the man who held her.

“Anstruther,” Mimms returned, with equanimity. “You found us quickly.”

“I had help,” said Dad. He was still looking at them so steadily, but his gaze did shift slightly to Hannah, and she understood.

“Leah told you.”

“Yes.” Still that dreadful, perfect stillness all through his body as he stared at them both. “She saw him take you. Came to find me. I followed.”

“You,” said Mimms, and Hannah felt the tension running through his arms as he shifted this way and that. As though the embankment to their left did not block their line of sight of everything but the twilight-dark sea rolling out into the distance on their right. “You and who else? How many others up there?”

Dad did something with his face that was not quite a smile.

“How many would it take to make you surrender to me?”

Mimms shook his head. Hannah felt it as he pulled her close and disarranged her hair with the ferocity of his negation.

“Nuh-uh. Not happening. Keep them back. Let me—let _us_ go down to the beach. There’s a boat coming to collect me. When we’re far enough clear, I’ll put her over the side in a dinghy. You can get her back, Anstruther, but to do that you have to let me go.”

Whatever Hannah might call the thing Dad was doing with his face now, it was definitely not a smile.

“You’re not taking her anywhere,” he said. “There isn’t going to be a boat for you, Mimms. It’s alive or dead. Which is your preference? You let her go now, and you get to make the call.”

Mimms hooted with high-pitched, incredulous laughter.

“You’re talking to me like I don’t have everything I need!” he burbled, disbelieving. “Like I can’t tell you to do whatever the fuck I want, and you won’t do it! Like I can’t walk down to the beach and tell you to stay put and you won’t! We both know you’ll do whatever I say just to keep me from pushing her off this cliff right here.” And, so saying, he jostled Hannah so that her sneakers slipped and skidded on treacherous shale and a thin shriek of terror escaped before she could stop it.

The look on Dad’s face in that moment promised pure, unequivocal death. Then his expression smoothed over, and he was back in control of himself once more.

“If you try to push her over, it will be the last thing you do.”

He took one small step forward. Mimms tightened his grip on Hannah’s neck. Dad stopped his advance, but continued to talk.

“You push her over and you lose literally the only thing keeping you alive. That make sense to you?”

It did not. Hannah saw the problem quite clearly, so surely the man who knew how to build a bomb—knew how to build three bombs, in total, and kill seventeen people—must be clever enough to see it too. If he threw her over, her dad would send Mimms over immediately after. There’d be no way to stop him. Not without Hannah.

It seemed Mimms did appreciate the problem, because after a moment’s pause he said, “Well there are degrees between living and dead, aren’t there?”

Then he pocketed his torch. For a moment, when his free hand skated across the thin fabric of Hannah’s shirt, she could not process what was happening. Then his fingers slid beneath the hem of her shirt, and she broke out in a cold sweat. Oh, God. He couldn’t possibly intend . . .

If she’d thought the look on her father’s face promised death before, the way he looked when Mimms slipped his hand up her shirt, even shrouded in the near-dark of pending nightfall as it was, showed her how wrong she’d been. _Death_ would have been a kinder, gentler threat than what her father’s expression promised now.

“You see what I mean?” Mimms said softly. His hand was tracing the skin of her tummy, drawing light, lazy circles around her belly button. She squirmed, frantic, loathing the ticklish nausea he inspired, but his other hand on her neck held fast.

Dad’s gun hand did not waver, but Hannah thought the hand that held the torch might have dipped, just a little.

“There’s so much I could do to her, Anstruther, before we ever made it as far as _death_.”

“Hers, maybe,” said Dad. His hand was so steady on the gun. “What about yours?”

“You’d shoot?” Mimms wondered. His hand slid out from under her shirt but tracked up, to her neck, and the buttons there. He popped one; two. Slid his hand down her shirt and squeezed one breast through her bra. “Really?”

Hannah scrunched her face up as his grip tightened; grew punishing. He pinched her nipple through her bra, and she couldn’t help it: she gasped. Then Mimms chuckled and she opened her eyes in time to see the way her father’s whole face froze over, like ice, like stone, like nothing could ever happen to make him look _live_ and _human_ again. She whimpered.

“You’re not going to shoot,” said Mimms. Hannah did not have to see his face to hear his smile. “You could never take that risk.”

He took his hand out of her shirt and yanked her backward a step. Then another. Before he could take a third, her dad fired. Rock chips above Hannah’s head whined and pinged free, and she felt the startled tension as Mimms jerked her close, shielding himself, and rapidly recalculated his options.

“Jesus, Anstruther, you think I won’t do it?”

“I think you’re on a cliff path that’s barely wide enough for one man. Whatever you think you can do to persuade me, you won’t be doing it here.”

“No?” he said. His hand slid back around to her front, but this time it did not go up her shirt. This time, he released the button on the front of her jeans, and Hannah was horrifically, humiliatingly grateful that it was finally too dark to clearly see the look on her father’s face. Because as Mimms slid his hand down the front of her jeans, she knew she never wanted to know what her father had looked like, watching this.

“I don’t need to lay her down to leave my mark on her,” Mimms explained. His hand was under the waistband of her panties, his fingers pressing into the soft curve of flesh beneath. Hannah’s breath came quick and tight. “Hell, I don’t need to leave a mark on her at all. If you take my meaning.”

Then his fingers found the split in her flesh, stroked through it, and he _laughed_. Hannah went board-stiff at the sound, miserable and mortified. He had his hand down her pants and he was stroking her between her legs, hand crammed tight into the front of her jeans, and he was making her father watch. Before she could stop herself she whimpered, and the torch that spotlit them both gave a tremor and dip.

Mimms chuckled, and put his mouth close to her ear.

“Would you like to come for me, sweetheart?”

“No,” Hannah said tremulously. “God, no.”

“Well I won’t make you,” he said thoughtfully, his hand continuing its easy rhythm against the softness of her curls. Spreading her open, two fingers flat against her, sliding lower, then lower still. “But it seems a shame, for us all to be sharing this _moment_ together, you giving so much of yourself to the performance, and getting so little in return.”

The torch had dropped, briefly, from their faces, as if the person holding it could not bear to look.

 _Dad_ , Hannah wanted to say, but could not bring herself to speak to him.

The problem with the torch beam dropping, though, was that it more plainly lit the very thing Mimms most wanted her father to see, which was probably why only moments later the beam jerked rapidly upright, so Hannah blinked in the light, and squinted, then sucked in her breath as the fingers Mimms had pressed against her slipped inside.

“No,” she gasped, writhing on his hand. “Stop it, stop— _please_.”

“She has good manners, Anstruther, I’ll give her that,” Mimms noted. It was his forefinger, Hannah thought, that he had slipped inside her. Then out. Then in again.

Oh, God.

“Your daddy raised you right,” he assured her, one finger sliding in and out of her as casually as if he were . . . were . . . what? Hannah’s brain stuttered through a wasteland of incomparable experiences, void of any apt simile for what was happening to her now. There was nothing like this. Not that had ever happened to her. Not that she ever wanted to happen again. His finger was inside her and he was pushing it in and out like she belonged to him.

“I won’t make her come, Anstruther,” he called out cheerfully, “because I told her I wouldn’t. Man of my word, you see? But I have one finger inside her already, and I am about to add a second, so rather than hear the sound she makes when I do, what do you say you let me walk down to the beach with her? Risking her life on my promise to put her over the side of the boat when it suits me sounding a little better to you, now?”

He firmed his grip on Hannah’s crotch and used his hold on her there to draw her back another step—but again a shot rang out. This one spat up stone chips from the path by their feet. Hannah’s head swam in the same way it had when the rocks fell into the water below.

“ _Not one more goddamn step_ ,” her father ground out. His voice was ragged around the edges, his breath coming choppy and uneven, but nobody who heard him say so could have doubted that he meant it. Not even Mimms, who froze, his finger still inside her, and took an agonizing moment to consider what to do next.

“Two fingers it is,” he said, a verbal shrug, an unspoken tail of _what the hell._ Then he forced another one up inside her and Hannah couldn’t help it: she screamed.

Her father did not step back, but the beam of light that pinned them both trembled like he longed to. Mimms laughed, cruel and bitterly pleased, and fucked both fingers inside her as a kind of consolation prize since escape remained denied.

“She’s so fucking tight,” he confided to her father. “It’s kind of a turn on, I’m not going to lie. Can’t even remember my last virgin. Never imagined my next one would be yours.” He stroked his hand in and out; thoughtful. Steady. “Bet you didn’t, either.”

Hannah whimpered.

“Sucks for her though. There’s no way I can really make this any easier on her; not if she won’t let me make her come. But I said I wouldn’t and I’m a man of my word, sweetheart, you see that, right?”

His fingers thrust in and out of her and his hand around her neck made her vision swim, her breath coming thin and tight through her throat. Hannah’s world reeled all around her in a blanket of bright spots and darkness, the echo of the ocean crashing through her head. And there, at the heart of it all, at the center of her being, the two fingers that thrust inside her, in and out, so steady and remorseless and wrong.

“Dad . . .” she whispered.

The hand on her neck slacked.

“Say it again, honey,” he encouraged softly. “Call to him. Tell your dad you want him to stop this. Say you want him to let us go down the path to the beach.”

Hannah drew a deep, shaking breath. Mimms waited, but she did not speak. Just kept breathing, struggling through the pain, through the way her head reeled and the world would not quite hold still, and then—

He pushed in a third. And Hannah used every atom of oxygen she’d recaptured to scream.

“Tell him!” Mimms growled. The thrusting picked up speed. She could _hear_ the sound it made. A wet, squelching, terrible noise. She would never forget it, as long as she lived. “Tell your father he can stop this. His little girl is riding my hand and crying cause it hurts, and he could stop it all, but he’s too fucking scared, you see that? Miserable goddamn coward, won’t let me take you, won’t run the risk, would rather watch me _fuck_ you,” his hand crammed against her on the word, so that she sobbed openly, unable to hold it in, “than do what he has to to keep you safe!”

It was wrong. All of it. Every word. He was lying. She knew he was. Her father wouldn’t let him take her because he knew as sure as Hannah did that if Mimms took her, he would never send her back. He’d keep her until he was sure her father had no way to save her, and then . . . well, what wouldn’t he do? He already had three fingers inside her, spreading her open, stretching her wide, making her go up on her toes with a shriek at the terminus of every inward thrust. If he got her alone on the boat, his ire at her father still singing through his blood, Hannah knew he wouldn’t hesitate to finish the job.

Mimms wouldn’t save her. He wouldn’t let her father save her. He wanted to hurt, he wanted revenge, and it was wrong, all wrong, so very . . .

And then the new wrongness began to build. A deep and pressing pleasure within, something Hannah had only ever felt before when she was perfectly alone, by herself, in bed. Only now it was coming from _him_. From his hand, inside her. He was making her feel it, and he wasn’t going to stop, there was no way to stop it from happening, from always knowing it had happened, that he’d fucked his fingers up inside her and made her come on his hand. Hannah would always have to know that thing, unless . . .

His hand was still slack on her throat. She had got her breath back. And her father, she knew, would never have come to this path alone.

The pressure was enormous within her now. His hand, yes, but the other thing she feared just as much. The knowledge that he would have taken her, and she wasn’t able to keep anything back.

Hannah couldn’t live with that.

She drew as deep a breath as his grip would allow, rolled her head forward, and snapped it back. She _heard_ the contact with his nose. Felt him stagger; clutch at her hair. She flung herself forward with a wordless shriek and dragged him forward with her. Hit the path, slipped, slid . . .

She was falling toward the edge. His hand was out of her now, scrabbling at the back of her jeans, clutching, sliding off, and he was going over the edge as well. She was speaking, screaming, all sound, shaped like words, just _DaddyDaddyDaddy_ and her father’s hand locked on her wrist like the only thing in the dark and the noise and the sucking, open void of night that was ever even real.

“Hold on,” her dad said, and that was easy, so she did. Clung to his hand as the cliffside pressed in, cut her tummy and scraped her pelvis, bared and open at the waist.

The hand was still on her ankle, still clutching. It started to drag her back . . . then came the bang of the report from her father’s gun, and the hand slacked, the dead swinging weight that threatened to drag her down was gone, and she was free.

Out of the corner of her eye Hannah saw an arc of yellow light spin through the dark, front over end in a crazy downward spiral, but then the ocean swallowed it up, and she couldn’t see it anymore. She could only feel her father, warm, solid, hauling her up with a gasp and a grunt, pulling her back against the cliff wall, against his chest, and holding her tight.

Footsteps echoed above them, shouts in the dark. The people Dad worked with, she supposed; released from their cover by the fall. They would be here soon, but for now it was just the two of them, clutching each other, sheltering each other, alive.

Alive was more than enough.


End file.
